Percepted Control
by cappuccino girl
Summary: She never meant for him to know so much, but with star gazing came the intimacy which she feared.


Percepted Control  
  
Author: Cappuccino Girl  
Genre: Angst  
Rating: PG-13 for subject matter  
  
Disclaimer: They aren't my characters.   
This isn't my show. They belong to Aaron   
Sorkin, John Wells Productions, and Warner   
Bros.  
  
Notes: Many thanks to my beta readers (you   
know who you are) for putting up with me   
and my crazy, angst-ridden world. You are   
brilliant. I don't really know where this   
story came from, I just started hearing   
the voices....   
  
Summary: She never meant for him to know   
so much, but with star gazing came the   
intimacy which she feared  
  
  
  
She touches the drops of water which are   
pearling on her forehead. It has been   
raining outside, and now, at midnight, she   
yearns for nothing more than the peace of   
her apartment. The cat is fast asleep on   
the bed, oblivious to her entrance. She   
watches as her paws twitch, dreaming of   
fields overrun by tall grass and mice.  
  
A blanket is sticking out obtrusively   
from under the bed, and she reaches down   
to move it. It is a little stubborn, so   
she pulls harder at it, until it is free   
from entanglement and unravels in front of   
her feet, unveiling not only its rich blue   
color, but a familiar carton which tumbled   
out with it.  
  
The cat has just woken and tries to seek   
comfort by brushing around the bed post.   
She kneels down to pet the kitten, which   
rolls onto its back, purring contentedly.   
The woman takes her place on the floor   
scratching the cat's furry stomach and   
proceeds to open the dark brown box.   
  
Some years ago she secured the lid with   
two elastic bands. Now she grips them, and   
slips one of her tired fingers underneath   
to remove their hold from the container.   
The bands have turned grainy with time,   
and so they crumble and break in her   
hands. She sighs, embracing the emotions   
of reliving and revealing the past as best   
as she can by brushing a film of dust   
from the lid to delay opening it. The box   
has little creases on the sides, and the   
top is sunk in a little due to her   
storing it with far less care than she   
takes now when she clutches the lid. She   
lifts the one corner and eventually opens   
it, like a child savoring unwrapping a   
present.   
  
The contents have faded, unlike her   
memories of the many people shown in the   
photographs clustered inside the box.   
  
  
She glances up at the mirror on the   
bedroom wall. There is the reflection of a   
woman. Tired. Worn. Hurting. She doesn't   
resemble the 25 year old in the picture.   
Thoughtful, she wonders whether they ever   
were the same person. Time should breed   
wisdom. She didn't look worried then.   
  
She strokes her index finger over the   
picture she is studying. It is Sam and the   
President and the First Lady at the time   
when they were known as Jed and Abbey.   
When she was known to everyone as CJ, and   
not the White House Press Secretary. Sam   
is just Sam. He has stayed that to her   
through all these years, and silently she   
prays that he will continue to be.  
  
Her life has made friends and soul mates   
scarce. That which remains of them is   
falling out of this carton and onto the   
smooth oak floor. Pictures, concert   
tickets, a few addresses to which she has   
never sent anything in years. She wasn't   
trying to block these out, just attempting   
to place them in a hold so that she could   
return to what once was. What she once   
had.   
  
Everyone tells her that she has it all,   
yet she feels this secret wish to try   
again, to go back and regain all things   
personal which she had. It would all mean   
so much more then.  
  
She has close friends. The closest of   
friends, and the deepest of loves. She   
fears what she does, what she may have   
done. Can she keep everything together, or   
will she continue to scar and fade until   
nothing remains but photographs to remind   
her? Will they take their place in a faded   
box under her bed, only to be opened by   
chance?  
  
~* *~  
  
11 hours earlier...  
  
  
She has not spoken with him today. Avoided   
him deliberately for fear of what he might   
tell her. While she would never admit to   
it, she is fragile and those words which   
he said the night before caused those   
little cracks in the mirror of her   
emotions to spread further inwards,   
weakening her whole outer frame. Her not   
admitting is the problem, or so he told   
her.   
  
She shivers gently at the thought, trying   
desperately to find some comforting   
thought in her work. Its appealing   
distraction cause her to type frantically   
as she can hide all manner of difficulties   
behind her work, for no one questions her   
on that. They trust her incomparable   
ability in managing the media, and know   
little of her failures elsewhere. She will   
never publicise those failures, for none   
could be more damaging to her self-  
confidence and others' perceptions of her.   
What else is she to them than percepted   
control, eloquence and intellect?  
  
She tries so hard to escape, yet he has   
found her. She removes her glasses so   
that she can see him without straining her   
bloodshot eyes.   
  
"Samuel." She murmurs wistfully, recalling   
those nights on the back lawn of his house   
when they used to talk about star   
formation and childhood dreams. When she   
felt safe for the first time in her adult   
life.  
  
He places a hand on her desk, nervously   
playing with the notepad upon it. She   
hopes he will talk so she won't have to,   
for she is afraid of talking again, afraid   
of what might be said between the two of   
them. She has so little to hold on to, so   
little which is sure and certain. And so   
she silently continues to study him. She   
watches how he fiddles with the pen he is   
holding and stares at his newly shined   
shoes.  
  
They once talked of wishes until their   
tongues were without words and all that   
was left was to kiss, for they knew so   
much about each other. Now he would not   
even say her name, but rather "Have you   
been briefed on the President's plan for   
police financing?"  
  
She tries to reply that she has, and she   
will try to make that her main focus, but   
it wouldn't be true, and if she can't be   
honest with him then there is no one.   
  
"Do I hurt you?" She questions, fearing   
the answer, yet longing for it to fix the   
cracks which are causing her to feel   
nauseous.  
  
He takes a seat opposite her and she   
watches him as he waves his pen around. He   
always does that when he wishes to delay a   
conversation so that he can script it out   
in his brilliant mind before talking.   
  
"Just look at yourself. Smart. Loving.   
Unconventionally beautiful. Why do you   
proceed to hurt yourself?" He pleas,   
rubbing his hands to distract himself from   
her painful gaze.  
  
She wraps her arms around herself trying   
to find security in them. She knows what   
he means. She never meant for him to know   
so much, but with star gazing came the   
intimacy which she feared.   
  
He knows how she punishes herself for   
failure with tablets to deprive herself of   
sleep, sometimes for a week at a time. He   
had found her that night, shaking on the   
steps to her apartment. Crying. He had   
never seen her crying before, never known   
she was capable of it.   
  
In his kindness he had taken a tissue from   
her purse with which to dry her face, and   
offered her his coat while they walked   
inside. She had laid on the sofa and   
cried until her stomach and chest hurt and   
all that came were sobs without tears for   
there was nothing left to shed. He had   
held her and assured her that she was   
beautiful and competent, while he felt her   
increasingly prominent shoulder and   
collarbone. She assured him, as she did   
everyone that she was ok, that nothing was   
wrong, but he didn't believe her for he   
felt it in her spiritless limbs. Rather   
than speak, he brushed the strands of damp   
hair from her face and traced the line of   
her face with his finger, in adoration of   
her fragility.  
  
He sits in the chair opposite her now.   
She studies the expression on his face,   
for he can formulate no words. She drops   
her head, losing some of the artificial   
pride which holds her public persona   
together. Her head hurts and it feels   
good, because she has failed worse than   
she can cope with, and her talking could   
provide no comfort to the one she   
cherishes.   
  
Eventually he strains himself to speak,   
reaching out to her for security, but   
finding nothing other than a fractured   
woman for support.  
  
"You are too precious for this. You should   
see how you look when you fall asleep,   
with your tousled hair and expression of   
hopefulness. You cry in your sleep, and   
shiver when you wake, and I know you don't   
want me to know, but I do."  
  
She places a hand in front of her mouth to   
subdue the emotion which might take her   
over if she is not careful.   
  
"I've seen the medicine cabinet in your   
bathroom, with the pills you use to force   
yourself into impossible success."  
  
She knows that he is right, that everyone   
fails, but inside she feels she shouldn't.   
She hears the voices of those who once   
taunted her when she was young. She proved   
them wrong and outshone them with her   
academic success, because she couldn't   
beat them in any other way. It is their   
tongues which plague her dreams and their   
words which deprive her of rest and inside   
she must continue to beat them.   
  
It is they who throw the stones at her   
inner mirror and cause little shards of   
glass to break off, which in turn pain the   
one she now loves. He knows all this, even   
though she has never mentioned it to   
anyone, not even him, for her face is   
honest to him alone.   
  
He shifts to the left of the chair,   
trying to find hidden strength in the arm   
rest. They cannot talk now, for he has   
said all that could be, and she has   
displayed all the emotions she will permit   
herself to.   
  
So he exits and she remains at her desk,   
swallowing another pink capsule, wondering   
whether she will lock away a further   
personal relationship in order that she   
can silence the sneering of those people   
she met so many years ago.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Feedback to: cappuccinogirlie@hotmail.com  
Visit the author's website at  
www.btinternet.com/~nagnrugs   



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